Incandescence
by shadow on my window shade
Summary: Bruce/OC Joker. Bruce realizes the Joker was right about one thing: the real players in this little game are bigger than he could possibly ever imagine. White becomes black before he has a chance to catch his breath. A character study in novella form.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**Long time Batman fan, first time Batman writer, so this will probably be one of those fics that catches speed as I write. Also, I'm a little out of practice writing fic in general, so please let me know if I'm ever being too vague or even obtuse. Also, parts of this story came to me in a dream, so there's definitely going to be some surreal moments, but that's cool with you guys, right?

Also, I would say the setting and characterizations are based on the Nolan films, which is why I've put the story here, but I don't really want to set it rigidly in the movie-verse. I'm definitely incorporating details from the comics. My intention here is to do a pretty indepth character study, so it's difficult to assign any genre to this story. Basically it will be about the epic battle (blah blah blah) of good and evil, but on a smaller, much more personal scale. I have introduced an original female character, and although she will definitely function as a romantic foil for Bruce -- and eventually the Joker, as well -- her greater purpose is to hold a mirror up to their natures. And she will also be a character in her own right. So, no, she's not a Mary-Sue. If you're looking for a fic about love and romance... well, you'll find it here... but my intention is to make this story about much more than that.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to Batman. ...Yet.

* * *

**Incandescence**

**Summary:** A year after the events of _The Dark Knight_, the battle within Bruce Wayne is far more fierce than the battle for the streets of Gotham City; and when the Joker throws himself back into the mix, Bruce begins to lose his grip on what little sanity and stability he has left. Bruce/OC/Joker.

**...Chapter One...**

_Gotham City is Manhattan below Fourteenth Street at eleven minutes past midnight on the coldest night in November. --Dennis O'Neil_

...But on a crisp spring day, there are moments when the fog collects at your feet in puddles for trampling and the possibility of change for the better seems nearly possible; though instead of trusting these moments, you learn to go no further than appreciating them for their other-worldly brevity. Soon, the temperature will rise, along with everyone's ire, and the cycle of decay will regain the speed that succumbed to the elements after Christmas. It's less like a circle than a spiral; or better, like a mathematical graph that rotates downward, and the only reason why the two points meet at all is due to some uncontrollable _exterior_ influence on one of the variables, shown on paper by a dramatic diagonal connecting the bottom of the funnel to the top.

No mathematician, nor politician, psychologist, nor least of all any theologian, has ever been able to remove this mutation from Gotham City's equation.

Both Diana Moore's studio and the gallery she had been calling home for the past week were within a block of Gotham Cathedral, in opposite directions. A truck had not been purchased to transport the twenty-two canvases accepted for her display, her first solo show, so she had no choice but to carry them down the street herself, unwrapped and exposed for anyone who cared to stare in her direction. For once she did not mind. She was just thankful morning still existed after weeks of becoming nocturnal in preparation for the show; although, as she digested the tangibility of years of work lined up against the walls of the Arcadia Gallery, she became more and more aware of a tag-a-long numbness she had failed to anticipate and found difficult to shake: the cold afterbirth of a life-consuming project.

The walls had been painted the color of milky coffee to off-set the brightness of the woman's work: white planes that created a blinding glare in direct sunlight, that made you blink as your eyes watered; towers of gold and collaged blocks of stained glass; vast, fleshy and muscular wings.

Had she not been forced to stare at the paintings all day and dream about them through the night, perhaps her original intentions would not have seemed so foreign now. Instead of looking into the face of God (and living to tell the tale), all the woman could see were a list of her own imperfections: this line was too thick; this gold was not bright enough; this plane was ruined by a dab of gray in the corner...

God did not make such mistakes.

She felt exhausted and removed from the situation: the location, the paintings, everything, even her own body. Her consciousness seemed to float just above her head. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, this displacement of self, and as the cathedral bells began to sound the hour, she comforted herself with a chuckle and a reminder that she had never fully been of this world to begin with. Almost immediately, the sensation subsided and was replaced by a heavier, more physical fatigue. Her shoulders sagged.

Turning her back on her own work, Diana observed a pair of young interns on the other side of the window, their paint-stained fingers wrapped around old yogurt containers filled with black, white, and gold pigment. At their feet was a small collection of aerosol sealants. From the other side of the glass, it seemed as though her show had been entitled:

"_sU gnomA llitS_."

Her eyes crossed as she attempted to reverse the letters and Diana's ability to focus dimmed like a overloaded light bulb. Suddenly, her own reflection dominated the mirror: her stringy, unwashed hair, her face, pale and naked. Diana blinked a few times in an attempt to wipe the image away, but only succeeded in totally failing to see an out-of-place, long black limousine take its station in a line of cars idling at the red light. She hurried through the door, oblivious to the last of the limousine's tinted windows, as it rolled downward to reveal a handsome man in dark sunglasses, which he lifted to briefly note her movements and then stare through the gallery window at the row of canvases on the other side of the painted glass; and although the sound faintly registered in her brain, she disregarded the horns of irritated drivers when the limousine stayed put and the man continued to stare until the next greenlight.

Diana's world had taken on a hazy glow though the glaze over her strained eyes. The street seemed navy blue instead of black, as if illuminated from below, and an equally mystical Gotham Cathedral rotated into view through the corner of her eye.

Her artistic temperament rarely allowed her to be up and about before noon, when the cathedral was well lit and welcoming -- as welcoming as anything was allowed to be in Gotham. At seven o'clock, the earliest service was already over and the church was dark, silent, and empty. She paused in front of the colossal structure and squinted to make out iron racks of candles flickering deeply with in the structure's cavernous, black maw.

But surely something good could still survive in the darkness that encased Gotham City.

Minutes passed before she finally climbed the stairs and entered, unaware that the black limousine had double-parked at the corner and the man in the sunglasses was watching her with growing interest from a little less than a block away.

Taking a seat in the last pew and deciding she would rest until the next service, Diana closed her eyes and allowed the shuffle of pedestrians outside to lull her to sleep. In her dreams, the sounds translated into people spinning around her in a circle, and the flutter of wings on creatures she could not make out, but they were like vertexes of light in a world full of shadows, and the woman herself felt like a candle in a cave.

**...Meanwhile...**

Meanwhile, the man in the sunglasses crossed the street in front of the Arcadia Gallery. At the door was a man with salt-and-pepper hair, in stylish, if not vaguely feminine plastic-rimmed glasses and with his sleeves rolled to the elbows. His fingers were on the lock above the knob, which clicked as their eyes met. He hesitated. The man in the sunglasses removed them and the man without them quickly unlocked the door and stepped aside.

"Please forgive our appearance, Mr. Wayne," begged Mr. T. Hepburn, the owner of the gallery, in a nasal, boyish voice. "We're behind schedule for our show tonight."

Bruce Wayne slipped his sunglasses into the breast pocket of his deep charcoal suit. "No, forgive me for surprising you like this, Hepburn. I could have called, but I didn't have time..." He approached the row of canvases slowly. "Who's work is this?"

"Her name is Diana Moore. We've carried a her for a few years, but it only started selling recently. Quite well, actually."

"I've been here before... I would have remembered something like this."

"Well, up until now she's been mostly a photorealist... I take it you like what you see, Mr. Wayne. Usually you send Mr. Bradley to make your purchases--"

"Bradley's turned my basement into a museum. He knows art, but he doesn't know what I like."

Hepburn waited for an appropriate chuckle to punctuate Bruce's words, but instead he only seemed to grow more serious, his pointed features taking on greater acuity as he knitted his brow. His eyes, however, took on the brightness of the paintings before him. Slowly, his face softened.

The clock on the wall chirped its usual announcement that it was fifteen minutes after the hour. Bruce examined his own watch to confirm the time.

"You must have received our postcard in the mail. The show begins at eight--"

Bruce nonchalantly stuffed his hands into his pockets, and interrupted Hepburn with equal casualty. "How many have you sold already?"

"Sixty... seventy-percent..."

Bruce nodded, his pointed chin bobbing with a sharp sigh through his nose.

"I'll take the rest of it."

* * *

**Author's Note: **If you like what you read, please leave me a note. Tell your friends. If you hated it, tell someone you don't like very much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to those who left reviews. Hopefully a few more of you will let me know if you're out there. Or maybe you're not. Really, I'm not sure how big the market is for the stories I like to write. But even if a few people like it, I'm happy.

This is a pretty Bruce-centric chapter. Well, you'll see.

**

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**

**...Chapter Two...**

With each morning, the temperature gained a degree, while the days had grown increasingly long. The sun was still parallel to his eyes when Bruce Wayne arrived home in the early evening; although the penthouse where he had been living in since the demolition of Wayne Manner still did not feel like anything remotely resembling a home.

More like some kind of glorified hotel.

A place for killing time, while he took a vacation from himself.

The Joker was in Arkham and nearly a year had passed since the last time he had seen him, dangling from rafters that seemed to hold the very sky together, swinging from side-to-side and spinning like pendulum. No, not spinning -- twisting. Twisting and screeching like a howler monkey.

Bruce's eyes shifted from the left to the right and back again... back again... back again...

It was also a drawing upon a year since the death of Harvey Dent...

Rachel Dawes.

And still the sun refused to set.

"Master Bruce?"

Bruce stood no more than an inch from the glass wall on the westward-staring face of his penthouse. Beside him was a small metallic cocktail bar. In his right hand was a highball glass of scotch and soda. Not a sip had been taken. The ice had melted, and a few drops of water rolled over the rim and mingled with the condensation collecting like a small puddle in his palm. The room behind him was fully lit, despite the incessant brightness of the sun, with members of his staff buzzing softly from station to station. A florist had just arrived with centerpieces for three round tables which had not been on the opposite end of the room when Bruce had left for work in the morning. In the center of it all stood Alfred Pennyworth: long-standing butler to the Waynes, Bruce's former legal guardian and quite possibly the only friend he had left. Certainly the only one he trusted, though implicitly so.

"Master Bruce?"

His eyelids fluttered. He rubbed the inside corner of his eye with the tip of his index finger. Turning, Bruce raised a quizzical eyebrow to his friend.

"Ms. Potter requires your approval for the flowers." He gestured to a plump young woman hugging a plastic container filled with loose yellow rose petals edged with gold. Unconsciously holding his breath, Bruce strolled across the room and nodded after barely three seconds of examination. Alfred, who had only been waiting for this cue, directed the lady towards the tables, where a pair of women were busy tightening the circumferences on a trio of decadent plum-colored tablecloths.

"Let the countdown begin," Bruce remarked with mock drollness, releasing two lung-fulls of leaden air.

"Party starts at ten," Alfred fed, in a tone equally dry and a little sarcastic. "I'm not sure why people continue to come after what your kicking them out of the Manor."

Bruce lifted his glass a few inches, as though he were finally about to take his first taste, but adjusted his shoulder instead. "I have somewhere to go first."

"Oh? And where is that?"

"A show at the Arcadia Gallery. Don't worry, I intend to be back in time."

"I wasn't worried at all, sir," Alfred replied, although he did not mean it. Every minute of every day for the last eleven months had given him a reason to worry. The time they spent together had seemed to decrease exponentially. When Bruce was making face time at Wayne Tower, he was rarely able to spend a full six hours at home. Even more disconcerting was the dust collecting in _the Batcave_; but where his young master spent his time, Alfred dared not pry, despite how hard his patience was tried. Even as a boy, he had been prone to spells of withdrawal, no doubt the result of being forced to grow up too quickly for his bones to keep with the pace. Now, fully an adult, his anti-social tendencies had given way to a melancholy that bordered on Shakespearean, but Alfred was no longer sure this was a turn for the better.

He narrowed his eyes on the glass in Bruce's hand and was somewhat reassured to see that it still full. "What's at Arcadia?"

"You'll see soon enough. I bought half the show." Once again, he lifted his drink, but only to take a whiff with his nose. Momentarily, his eyes brightened, and a somber smile curled the corner of his lips.

"You yourself, sir?"

Bruce stepped into the kitchen and poured the diluted contents of his glass down the sink. He nodded. "This morning."

"Has Bradley been fired? Should I be typing my resume, as well?"

Bruce chuckled. Alfred decided to take this as a good omen.

"Happy birthday, sir."

**.......................................**

The clinks of glasses and cicada-esque chatter had no room to echo between the hundred or so patrons of the Arcadia Gallery, and so what little noise that was not absorbed in the folds of finely tailored suits and delicate spring frocks had nowhere to go but rush to the door whenever it opened, _and so_ it went almost unnoticed when Bruce Wayne entered the main exhibition hall just shy of eight-thirty that evening.

_Almost_.

"May I check your coat, Mr. Wayne?" asked a stout, middle-aged man dressed in white suit -- the not quite so finely tailored, but still sharp employee uniform that had been selected for the event. Bruce waved him away politely.

"No thanks, I'll keep it with me. I won't be staying long."

In less than sixty seconds, every head in the room had glanced in his direction, some briefly, while others continued to stare. Bruce granted them a general, close-lipped smile, careful not to look directly into any individual pair of eyes, and allowing his own to absorb the colors that seemed to swirl around him, or the absence thereof. Everywhere he looked, something white commanded his attention: soft uncovered lights directed at the ceiling, white uniforms on the employees, white details on the patrons. The only shred of white on his own person were the microscopic pinstripes running down his black dress shirt, beneath his black leather jacket, which he decided to unzip. The air conditioner cooed faintly overhead, but the hall was sultry with body heat and musky with perfume.

Unbuttoning his collar for good measure, Bruce approached the first spotlighted painting, which hung on the narrow plane of a blocky, portable wall. The canvas was only a foot wide, but at least six feet in height. A fat, knotted branch curved up from the bottom and across the middle, cutting the painting in half and vanishing from sight. The top was a cascade of golden leaves, that seemed not only to flicker as he blinked, but to sway in the breeze of some kind of alternate universe.

It was beautiful, absolutely breathtaking. In all the places he had been, and all the people he had met, and all the things he had seen, Bruce stood in stunned silence that he had never seen anything like _this_ before. Truthfully, he had been impulsive in his purchase. Bruce had become aware of that almost immediately. All day he had felt queasy over the idea that when he returned to the gallery he would be sorely disappointed on his own judgement, as if his brain had only been at the right place at the right time, and by nightfall the spell would break.

He was glad to discover he was wrong. He was quite nearly _happy._

Nearly.

But close enough to realize there was a concrete difference between numbness and lucidity.

"Champagne, Mr. Wayne?"

A petite cocktail waitress had appeared at his side, offering a tray of tall silver-tinted flutes. Once again, Bruce shook his head graciously.

He circled the wall to his left, minding his broad shoulders as he weaved around the patrons. A large canvas came into view, depicting a white ceiling with a neat square hole cut out. The sky above was tinged with gold, while the room below was smudged and filthy, like a coal cellar; but as Bruce stared, his eyes shifted into focus, and it became apparent that the room did not have walls at all, but was in fact an endless, surreal city street. The streaks of charcoal became buildings caving in under their own weight, abandoned while their former occupants -- unearthly shades of green and red -- wandered off into oblivion.

Gotham.

But his attention kept traveling upward without his permission; Bruce forced it down to the street, again and again, but it refused to remain. The golden clouds kept beckoning him closer, and it seemed as though he had no choice but to obey. _Look here... look here..._ And only a few seconds passed before Bruce realized he was not looking at a cloud at all, but at a pair of golden eyeballs.

"A little too early too be fashionably late, aren't we, Mr. Wayne?"

His heart skipped and sent a jolt down to the tips of his fingers.

"Easy there, Mad Max."

The voice did not belong to another employee -- one that would have certainly gotten herself fired within the week -- but a young woman in a strapless white dress, one which might have been suitable for a woman with a less ample chest, but on her it was borderline pornographic. She was a bombshell, an absolute goddess, with perfectly straight fire-colored hair, emerald eyes, and a mouth that Bruce was sure could maintain its pout through any natural disaster or nuclear catastrophe.

They found them. They _always _managed to find him.

"I'm sorry," he began, trying his best to be cordial. "Do I _know _you?" ...but failing miserably. Her timing had been impeccable.

"Bonnie Boyd," she declared, extending her hand and ignoring the question just as he had expected. Bruce offered her what he thought of as his business handshake, which seemed to throw her off, if only for a second. Her bosom wobbledlike poorly refrigerated gelatin. "I didn't expect to see you out and about tonight. Don't you have better places to be on your birthday?"

Bruce shook his head rather frankly. "Oh, no, I live for art," he replied, knowing himself that it was not true. The words left a unfamiliar aftertaste on his tongue.

"You know, men have told me I have a body perfect for modeling." As if she needed extra emphasis, the girl ran her hands over her hips, bringing them in to rest just above each knee.

Bruce cocked his head to the side, now trying to suppress the mischievous grin stretching his lips. He leaned forward, as though he was hard of hearing. "I'm sorry, did you say your name was _Bunny_?"

The girl copied his stance, her pout losing a touch of its luster. He assumed it was the closest thing she could manage to a frown. Her eyes seemed to retreat into her skull. He had damaged her ego, possibly for the first time. She was young, barely out of her teens, and perhaps it was his duty to teach her a lesson, but Bruce was not interested in sending waves through the crowd. And maybe, just maybe, he felt the slightest bit ashamed of himself.

"Look, Bonnie," he began with a sigh and lowered his voice, "You're a very pretty girl, but--"

Before Bruce could finish, the girl turned on her stiletto heal and disappeared into the throng of patrons. "Your loss."

An outright refusal would have been too much for her to handle. This way, she had remained in control and could brag with a clear conscience in whatever circles she traveled; and brag she would, he was certain. It definitely took guts to proposition Bruce Wayne... _Gotham's Prince_, or whatever they called him now; _Gotham's _(Perpetual)_ Most Eligible Bachelor. _How many years would have to pass before he would quality as eccentric? He wondered if he had been wearing the Batsuit if she might have attempted the same thing.

Bruce straightened his shoulders and watched the top of Bonnie's red hair as she cut a path for herself. She turned a number of heads before vanishing behind another portable wall. The chatter in the room seemed to grow louder. An elderly man released a hacking laugh a few feet away, followed by his wife's birdlike twitter. In the distance, Bruce could pick phrases out of a conversation, "...you must come to dinner, soon..." and "...once we get back from Amsterdam... ..._work _forces us to travel... ...how is the family business, anyway?"

"...profits are booming overseas..."

"...don't you have people to go to Amsterdam _for_ you?"

No one was looking at the paintings.

They noted them with vacant eyes. They acknowledged their existence, but they did not look. They did not see. They did not care.

Bruce's skin began to crawl. His stomach became clammy and as he breathed it started to cling to the threads of his black shirt. He had known he would be entering enemy territory the moment he decided to come: brain dead sycophants, bimbos looking for a wealthy John, small-time mobsters who had only gotten into the business to fill their homes with imported furniture...

He turned back to the canvas. They had no idea what they had come to see. They _could not_ see.

Bruce paused. He mouth went dry.

So, why could _he_?

And for that Bruce Wayne still had no answer. The aftertaste of confusion lingered in his mouth, while a pair of golden eyes continued to stare at him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Okay, give me an honest answer here. Do you think I should leave this story under this category, or move it to the comic section? I'm asking for two reasons: (1) although I am using the events in the films as a springboard, even using the actors when I visualize a character's physicality, I am definitely using the comics as a means to get into the character's real personalities. I hope that's coming through. (2) I'm worried that this category isn't visited as much as the comic category since the films are not as fresh in everyone's minds. Maybe that will change when TDK comes out on DVD, but I'm having some trouble getting my head around the division in general. When I used to write LOTR fic, there wasn't a separate category for the films; everything went under the books.

* * *

**...Chapter Three...**

_"No, Diana, the entire show has been sold."_

_A gulp of hastily swallowed champagne burned in her throat. "That's not possible, Tom. How? How did you manage that? I left you this morning with only half... **who** buys half a show?"_

_Mr. T. Hepburn giggled. "Bruce Wayne, that's who."_

Diana Moore's hand ached from being squeezed between fistfuls of ostentatious rings. Already her manicure was chipped. She offered thanks to the same congratulatory remarks so many times that her words sounded almost as trite as the compliments themselves. If they truly understood her work, they would not have been to inclined to _thank_ her.

"It's so _pretty_, dear..."

Yes. Some of it was quite pretty -- even though Diana would have preferred the "beautiful." Pretty was a word you used to describe a charm bracelet, although she knew that was the role she had agreed to play: something pretty for the wealthy apathetic masses of Gotham to collect.

Her smile remained tacked on with lavender lipstick. "Thank you so much. Thank you for coming." She hated the way it made her feel, because she wanted to mean it so badly. Diana wanted so much to feel truly grateful. Instead she felt cheated, lost, and confused.

She began to mimic the voices of those that approached her, repeating their inflections to entertain herself (or to keep herself from going crazy) until it became semi-violent regurgitation. She embarrassed herself badly when she developed a British accent while shaking the hand of a grandmotherly lady born in England.

"Oh, where are you from?" asked the positively delighted woman.

Diana cleared her throat and smiled, her the apples of her cheeks growing warm. "Where are _you_ from?" Diana asked through clenched teeth as the heat spread to her ears.

Hepburn, who had been hovering a foot away, took his newest business partner by the elbow and carried her off in the opposite direction. He plucked the nearly empty champagne flute from her left hand. "You're getting bored. Why don't you freshen up."

Diana obeyed without a struggle, _truly grateful_ for the first time that evening, as he had given her an excuse to abandon everyone for a while. "Don't drink that. I think I'm going to need it."

Once inside the unisex restroom, Diana locked the door. The buzzing overhead light was jaundiced and glaring. She walked to the sink and began to rinse her hands in cold water. Shaking off the excess drops, she patted her cheeks until they turned clammy.

She sighed.

Diana wondered how long she could hide before someone else needed to use the toilet, or Hepburn knocked on the door to fetch her. He needed the money more than she; in fact, _she _was doing just fine, lately. The Arcadia Gallery was not the only one interested in her work, but it was the first to give Diana her own show. It was to Hepburn she was grateful; and since the show had been completely sold, there would certainly be another one in the near future. Diana supposed she had Bruce Wayne to thank for that, even though the very idea felt like a shard in her heart.

Bruce Wayne: Gotham's biggest celebrity, its closest thing to royalty; his finely hewn face was printed on the cover of every tabloid in the city. A year ago, he had allegedly been dating one woman from an primetime Emmy-winning medical drama, while another claimed he was the father of her baby. He had his photo taken with every woman in Hollywood, not to mention the entire Russian ballet company. Now, the stories were about the endless list of prescription medications he was using to delay his inevitable and impending insanity. For goodness sake, the man burnt his own house to the ground -- "by accident," he claimed. Bruce Wayne was a Class A embarrassment to society.

Despite the fact that he had surprisingly excellent taste in art...

Diana groaned. She hated the knots forming in her stomach. She hated the way champagne turned sour beneath her tongue.

But, most of all, she hated how events such as these made her feel even the slightest bit superior to anyone else. By the time she opened the door, Diana Moore felt thoroughly ashamed of herself.

* * *

By nine-fifteen, Bruce had endured for as long as he could in the suffocating atmosphere of the main exhibition hall. He felt like he was holding his breath for survival, and that the air was slowly being squeezed from his lungs.

The gallery was shaped like a ring, with a narrow hallway connecting the western face to an inner chamber, where the empty office and a restroom were located. It was during an escape to the center of the labyrinth that Bruce ran into Mr. Hepburn, who was walking briskly with a pencil in one hand and a champagne flute in the other. He walked directly to the restroom door and rapped on it with his knuckle. "Break's over," he announced, somewhat to Bruce's puzzlement, and marched around a counter to a desk in the corner where a computer was hibernating silently.

Realizing he had not been noticed, Bruce strolled to a table in the opposite corner and picked up a postcard with the name of the show printed in the center: _Still Among Us._ Below it was the artists name in a loopy, feminine font. All the words were in black, against a purely white background.

Tucking his pencil behind his ear, Hepburn began clickity-clacking away at his keyboard. Bruce waited a few more moments and finally cleared his throat. The older man glanced casually in his direction. "Ah, Mr. Wayne. Anything I can do for you? Enjoying the show as much as you did this morning?"

Bruce slipped the postcard into a pocket in the lining of his leather jacket. "Do you have a catalogue? I have to leave in a few minutes and I was wondering--"

"Which paintings belonged to you?" Hepburn finished. His eagerness to please was obvious, but not off-puttingly so. He turned away from the computer and produced a narrow binder from one of the desk's drawers. He opened it and placed it in butterfly form on the counter that separated them. As Bruce moved closer, he could begin to make out a number of names scribbled beneath thumbnail images of the collection: some of them completely foreign, one or two familiar, and the rest his own.

The lock on the restroom door finally clicked. Hepburn kept his eyes on the binder, but Bruce turned to look over his shoulder, vaguely curious for an explanation regarding the end of a "break." His question was answered instantly as Diana Moore stepped out -- or as Bruce better remembered her: the woman who he had spied entering Gotham Cathedral. She looked quite different up close, but without a doubt he knew who she had always been. She recognized him immediately, as well, but the look that passed across her features was something closer to genuine shock, rather than the starstuck twinkle common to the girls he usually met; although Diana Moore was not exactly a girl -- youthful, yes, but she had certainly passed thirty.

"Oh, wow..." she hummed. "That's... that's ironic."

"What?" Bruce asked.

Diana stared at him a moment longer and finally began to blink. The color returned to her face, which was full of delicate keepsake features, like the china dolls his mother used to collect, and prematurely lined like lace. She shook her head and ran her fingers briefly across her cheek before offering her hand to shake. "Nothing. I'm sorry."

Hepburn, who was still leafing through the catalogue, used his pencil to save them the trouble of a formal introduction. "Diana, this is Bruce Wayne. Bruce Wayne, Miss Diana Moore."

She stared at him, tilting her head to the side. Bruce wondered what she was thinking. Finally, she smiled. "Hi."

Bruce returned the grin. His stomach fluttered nervously as he realized he was a little starstuck himself. All the beauty in the rooms that surrounded him had poured out of this woman, a vision of the world he could not fully grasp, but felt as if his life depended on its existence. He glanced at her hands, which were slender and slightly stained, and imagined a paintbrush between her fingers. "Hello."

"So, I heard you're keeping us in business. Thank you."

"Well, usually I have someone who buys things for me," Bruce replied, and, despite the statement's implications, he enjoyed the cooling sensation of genuine humbleness in her presence.

"But you did this on your own."

"Yes."

* * *

He was not what Diana expected. Not at all.

The photographs had not done his appearance justice, although Diana quietly wondered if it was she who had failed to pay them their due attention. To say Bruce Wayne was handsome barely described him: it was the manner in which he stood, the width of his shoulders being in perfect ratio to the length of his torso; his hair just as long as a man's hair was meant to be; the ocher of his skin -- but, for all these qualities, it was not attraction that she immediately felt, but a lamentable pang that she had been denied him as a model in art school. At the very least, Diana suddenly understood why so many paparazzi dug their talons into every banal detail of his life; but also she found herself unable to remember what she _had_ expected. A slick-haired greaser? The smell of alcohol where there should have been cologne?

"To be honest, I'm not sure what paintings I own. Mr. Hepburn was just about to show me. ...I wanted whatever I could get."

"What are you going to do with them?" she asked.

Bruce shrugged and shook his head, appearing to only now realize just how embarrassed anyone else might be in the same situation. He even seemed to blush and grinned to disguise it.

Well, all the papers said he was quite aware he was going crazy.

"I was planning on hanging them up," he finally said, with regained matter-of-factness. "I have enough room for them." Everyone in Gotham knew that Wayne Manor was being rebuilt.

Hepburn stole an opportunity to interject. "Mr. Wayne, you own seven pieces from the show."

"Seven!" Diana exclaimed.

Bruce frowned. "I thought I had eight."

"As far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to purchase the whole show if you want, but you'll need to speak with the individual buyers."

"And beat their prices?" Bruce finished, to which Hepburn only shrugged and smiled without shame. The phone rang and he excused himself.

Bruce shifted his weight from side-to-side, balancing on his heels. Any other man would have seemed awkward. The silence between them became pregnant with the amplification of chatter pouring through the hallway, and the palms of Diana's hands, which until now had been dry, were once again clammy.

"Do you think you will?" she finally asked. "Do you think you'll try to talk everyone out of their purchases." It made her throat tighten to realize that the man was perfectly capable of paying two prices, one to Arcadia and one to content the previous owners.

"Maybe... I don't think I can do it tonight... I have to leave, well, now, to be perfectly honest."

"That's right, it's your birthday, isn't it?" Diana was stunned to realize she had been able to roll such information so neatly off the tongue. Bruce cocked a curious eyebrow. She clenched her teeth and waited for the urge to explain herself faded. After all, he certainly knew how commonplace the facts of his life had become. It should not surprise him to know she read the daily news.

"Yes."

"...Happy Birthday."

"Thank you..."

Now his mannerisms grew antsy, as his eyes shifted from Hepburn to the hallway, and finally to his wristwatch. With a nod of his head, Bruce made a motion as though he was about to wish her goodnight and leave, but a step later, he turned sharply and lowered his voice. "Miss Moore, I would... like it very much if I could talk with you about everything--"

"What?"

"About your paintings..." But he did not continue speaking right away. It was almost as if he was desperate _not_ to say something.

"All-all right."

"Would Mr. Hepburn let me take you with me? I mean, would he be upset with you if you left?"

Diana glanced sideways, but could not find the gallery owner in her peripheral vision.

"I'm sorry. I'm asking you, not him--" he continued.

"You mean tonight?"

"Yes."

Although there was plenty of space behind her, Diana suddenly felt as though she were being slowly backed against a wall. Her shoulder blades pinched her spine. A wave of disorientation washed over her. "Don't you have a party tonight?"

Bruce's feet remained planted firmly on the floor. "I'm asking you if you'd like to go with me."

"Like a date?" She regretted the words immediately; it was painfully obvious how determined he was to tactfully avoid the term.

He sighed. "If someone asks, yes, I will have to say you're my date for the evening."

Finally the full weight of his request fell upon her, though it was much lighter than Diana had anticipated. The noises outside seemed to fade away, replaced by a ringing in her ears. She turned to look at Hepburn, who was holding the phone to is head and covered the mouthpiece with the palm of his hand.

"Bruce Wayne has my permission to do whatever he wants with you."

Diana found it difficult to swallow. The words that came felt as though they were being formed by another tongue. "I'll get my coat," she said and was halfway through the hallway before she realized the setting had changed. It was as if the she was staying put and the gallery was moving around her, not unlike a car inside a carwash. Even the plethora of skits ahead began to twirl like brushes. She hesitated and rubbed her eyes. Bruce gently touched her shoulder and Diana turned around.

"Miss Moore, all you have to do is tell me to get lost and I promise you I will."

"No... it's just that... my brain's having trouble processing all of this."

"We can talk some other time."

She smiled faintly, a bewildered attempt to reassure him, although Diana would have preferred the tables to be turned. "To tell you the truth, I've been looking for an excuse to leave all night."

"Why's that?"

Diana dared to look directly in his eyes and was astounded by their steely, forthright nature; not the eyes of a madman at all, and certainly not the eyes of an embarrassment to society; but, rather, someone who was desperate for... for...

She did not yet know.

"I just have a feeling I'm supposed to be somewhere else..."


End file.
